


Spring, Summer, and Fading

by klose



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/pseuds/klose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you know, Gil-galad,” Glorfindel says, stepping up at Elrond’s other side, swirling the wine in his goblet with studied casualness, “That Elrond has also been learning the secrets of Nandorin healing arts from Lady Celebrían?” </p><p>“<i>Nandorin healing arts</i>? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Gil-galad wonders mildly, sipping at his own drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring, Summer, and Fading

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Independence1776](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Independence1776/gifts).



> Huge shout-outs & thank-yous to Oshun for graciously beta-reading this so quickly and thoroughly, and to Fleet for cheer-leading! 
> 
> The dates used below were taken from _The Lord of the Rings_ , Appendix B, as supplemented by information from The History of Galadriel and Celeborn in _Unfinished Tales_. The latter also includes the following quote:
>
>>   
>  _"...[Galadriel] committed Lórinand to Amroth, and passing again through Moria with Celebrían she came to Imladris, seeking Celeborn. There (it seems) she found him and there they dwelt together for a long time; and it was then that Elrond first saw Celebrían, and loved her though he said nothing of it."_   
> 

* * *

 

**Spring SA 1701, Imladris**

Elrond has time to exchange only the quickest of greetings with Galadriel before hastening towards the valley’s makeshift hospital. His people bustle in just ahead of him with the rest of Galadriel’s party, and even as he leaves the Lady behind, he can hear her speaking in urgent tones with Celeborn and Glorfindel, no doubt regarding the Orc band that waylaid them just north of the Moria gate—one of the few remnants that escaped the combined forces of Númenor and Lindon as well as the continuing efforts of Elrond’s scouts.

One other walks quickly alongside him: a woman, clad in the same green and brown hues as Galadriel’s bodyguard from Lórinand, but also hooded and masked except for her eyes—which Elrond notices, when she turns to look at him, are a sharp, almond-shaped grey.

“Elphir has several broken ribs and a small puncture wound to his left lung,” she begins, without preamble or introduction, pointing at a barely conscious green-and-brown clad man who is even now being laid out in the nearest empty bed. “We were able to re-expand the lung, drain the fluids, and seal the area, with no complications.”

Elrond isn’t sure if she is a battle surgeon, or simply one of Galadriel’s guards. Her triage report continues, brisk and professional. He listens intently even as he performs his own quick preparations and examines each case described. That before dispatching his healers—a ragtag band of those with formal training who had accompanied him from Lindon, and others spontaneously recruited to the cause even as they beat a fraught retreat from Eregion—to follow up with the appropriate treatments.

“—Girion here took a poisoned dart to the thigh. That wound quickly turned necrotic, but I have applied a dressing that has already taken effect, and which I believe can now be safely removed.”

Elrond frowns, wondering why this has been brought to his attention last, rather than first, for poison wounds are the most grievous to heal, if at all. The man in question, Girion, lies prone in a cot with his eyes closed and face pale. As Elrond’s healers cut off the injured man’s stained leggings, Elrond takes a small, sterile dagger and peels away the bandages covering the thick dressing.

“It seemed to me the priority was to clean out the infected tissue, and—”

What she was about to say, Elrond does not learn, for as he opens up the dressing, he flinches, aghast at the sight that meets his eyes. “Elbereth! What is the meaning of this?”

His companion finally pulls down her hood—revealing silver-gold hair bound in braids about her head—and begins to undo her mask. “Debridement therapy, my lord Elrond,” she says very evenly. “Time and medical supplies were limited, as I’m sure you can understand and imagine. I had to be creative.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Even so,” he says coolly, giving the fair-haired woman a sidelong look. Her features are uncovered now, and under other circumstances, he might have thought her quite comely indeed, but as it is… “I do not believe I caught your name, my lady. Are you a trained healer?”

She shrugs, pulling off her green gauntlets. “I spent time learning the ways of Amdir’s folk. Ways that no doubt seem barbaric to your Noldorin training, my lord—” and here she graces him with a piercing glance—“Let me clean my hands and I will help you deal with that dressing.”

The lady quickly scrubs her hands at the closest washing station, before returning to the bed to take the dagger from Elrond’s hands. Deftly, she cleans the dressing out and removes it to an empty silver dish that sits on the wooden stand beside them.

“They do not touch healthy tissue; rather they only clean out anything necrotic, and also release a sort of recuperating ferment. But here, just look.”

She still has not yet answered his first question, Elrond realises, but nonetheless he leans in close, both wary and curious. He expects infected blood, bare bone, and rotting tissue at the very least, surely, and yet—there is none of that. Indeed, the flesh remaining is almost completely pink, shockingly clean except for bright red blood, and healthier looking than it has any right to be, all things considered. He blinks, startled yet again.

“Celebrían!”

Elrond turns to see Celeborn striding into the sickroom, and watches with no little surprise as the woman next to him moves to meet the Sindarin lord halfway, stopping only to quickly clean her hands. Indicating to his helpers that they should finish cleaning out the wound and its dressing, Elrond washes his own hands as well before joining Celeborn and the young woman—apparently his daughter.

Now that he knows to look, he sees the familial resemblance: the silver hair from her father, and the piercing eyes and expressive brows most certainly from her mother. She is a hair shorter than Celeborn, and therefore Galadriel too, but still of a height with Elrond.

“Papa! I’m covered in filth, I’m sorry—”

“And you’re also alive and unharmed, and that is most important to me,” Celeborn cuts her off, embracing her tightly. “I meant to greet you earlier but your mother and the scouts who met your party along the way had reports—”

“I understand, Papa, and I’m sorry I rushed off. I just needed to be sure that our people were in good care before I could do anything else,” Celebrían reassures him, returning the hug with equal fervour.

“And how are they?” This question seems to be addressed to Elrond as well.

Elrond thinks it prudent to avoid discussing the matter of Girion’s treatment, for the moment. “Your daughter has done very well under the circumstances,” he says, carefully neutral.

Celeborn mistakes his tone for something else altogether. “Ah, but you have both not met before today, have you?” he asks, looking between them.

“Unfortunately not,” Elrond says, nodding politely at Celebrían who now gazes back at him inscrutably. In that at least she is startlingly like her mother.

“No,” she agrees. “Lord Elrond was away from court the few times I visited Lindon, I think. And now I may have given him the shock of his life!” Her mouth quirks upwards.

“Not at all,” Elrond interjects smoothly, though Celeborn now looks more amused and intrigued than anything. “Lady Celebrían was merely acquainting me with the, er, healing methods of the Nandor. And that being done, I’m sure you would appreciate a bath and some repast, my lady? Our facilities here are still limited, I’m afraid, but we can offer you that much, along with private lodgings.”

Celebrían inclines her head, all grace despite her obvious weariness from the difficult journey into their hidden valley. He notices now that her raiment is travel-stained and torn in places. “I thank you, Lord Elrond.”

Celeborn begins to guide her out by the elbow. “Come, Celebrían, I will bring you to the women’s dwellings. By your leave, Elrond. I believe Glorfindel will have an update for you as soon as you can spare him a moment.”

“Noted, thank you.”

Celebrían glances at Elrond, just before stepping out the door, and he nods, seeking to reassure her that her injured companions are in good hands.

Meanwhile, someone coughs behind him, and Elrond turns to find one of his healers staring at the silver dish that now holds the squirming remnants of Girion’s wound dressing.

She glances up at him, eyebrows rising almost to her hairline. “ _Maggots_ , lord?”    

“Fly larvae,” he amends, rather pointlessly. “It… seems to work better than one might expect,” he admits, with no small reluctance. At any rate, it doesn’t seem to have harmed Girion any more than the Orc dart did. “But please incinerate the, er, _dressing,_ along with the other medical waste.”

“At once, sir,” comes the reply, and once Elrond sees that his request is executed post-haste, he busies himself checking on the status of the remaining patients one last time before he too must clean up and head back out. There are other guests he needs to check on, Galadriel and her other uninjured companions not the least, and he is also eager for Glorfindel’s news from the patrols. Still, as he makes his round, his gaze drifts the doorway where Celebrían and Celeborn disappeared through earlier, and he finds himself both distracted and intrigued.

*

“We’ve confirmed that it was a runaway remnant that harassed Lady Galadriel’s party, and not scouts from a larger host,” Glorfindel tells him a few hours later. He points out the Moria gate on their map of Middle-earth, and tracks upwards towards the hidden valley that Elrond’s folk have begun to refer to as Imladris. “I propose—and Celeborn agrees—that we extend our patrols across this route for a time, to better secure the area.”

Elrond nods. “Agreed, please proceed.” With the major threat to Eriador abolished by the combined might of Lindon and Númenor, he is confident in delegating the valley’s security to both Glorfindel and Celeborn. Given their combined experiences in Beleriand, he would be a fool not to.

And with Erestor overseeing the care of his newly-arrived guests—Galadriel, Celebrían, and their two-dozen strong company of Lórinand guards—Elrond allows himself to return to the other matter that has taken up most of his time of late: the construction of Imladris into a habitable refuge. For Gil-galad, when he had finally been able to get a missive to Elrond, had recommended that the valley be the new stronghold of the Eldar in Eriador, rather than a simple outpost.

“ _And, after all, you are far past the age to lead your own House and people, just as your forebears did before you,”_ the High King had written, and though Elrond had been content to live in Lindon as his cousin’s lieutenant and advisor, he is grateful for a new task to throw himself into. Something to redeem his failure to rescue Celebrimbor and the many lives lost in the battle for Eregion, maybe. Not that anyone else has called it a failure. Indeed, Gil-galad, Celeborn, and Glorfindel have all taken pains to praise Elrond's leadership under such difficult circumstances. But it will be a while yet before he can view the matter objectively—or to forget the sight of Celebrimbor’s corpse, pierced with arrows and ill-used by Gorthaur’s forces as a grotesque banner.

“Have you considered establishing a supply route by the eastern falls?”

Elrond looks up from his maudlin thoughts to find Celebrían standing on the other side of the table, staring intently at the design plans spread out over it. Glorfindel, who is still plotting out his patrols on the maps by the wall, raises his eyebrows.

“Good evening, my lady,” Elrond says politely. To his surprise, Celebrían’s cheeks colour slightly as she glances up at him. She’s dressed now in simple blue raiment, her silver-gold hair tied in a single loose braid, but she stands straight-backed and proud despite the blushing, and Elrond suddenly finds himself struck—by her beauty, yes, but also by the keen intelligence in her grey eyes, and the thoughtful way she looks down again at the architectural plans for Imladris.

“Good evening, Lord Elrond.” She curtsies to him, and he notices with approval that she looks refreshed, as if she has had both a bath and a hot meal. “My apologies for the interruption—I was exploring the eastern slopes of the valley, and it occurred to me that an alternate path could be built there quite easily. It will end up rather long and winding, given the existing geography, but surely a safer one for trade vans,” she says, tracing out her proposed path.

Elrond feels a touch of irritation because yes, he is well aware of that. Four years of living in the valley have ensured he is well-acquainted with its ins and outs. But that isn’t fair—she is just trying to be helpful, and there is no harm listening to a fresh opinion on this topic, solicited or not.

“There are several reasons we’ve chosen not to build a trade route there, and I would be happy to discuss them with you,” he says slowly. “Though in truth, I expected you would be eager for rest after the difficulties of your journey here?”

“Oh, I was,” Celebrían admits, now looking sheepish. The earnest expression suits her as well as her earlier seriousness, Elrond thinks. “I did take a nap, after cleaning up and grabbing a bite, but I wanted to explore the valley. It’s so beautiful.”

She sounds sincere enough in her appreciation for Imladris that Elrond can’t help but smile. “We do have our work cut out for us in making this a fair and wondrous settlement—but I would say that you and your mother arrived at a particularly good time, with spring in full bloom. And the summer will be even more beautiful, for the days will turn longer and sweeter, and more colourful.”

Celebrían returns the smile. “I hope to see it. I’m sure she intends to speak of this with you later, but my mother and I thought to remain here till next spring at least, with your leave.”

“Of course,” Elrond says gravely. “You are kin, after all, and I myself thought to ask you both to stay for a while. Gil-galad hopes to arrive as soon as he can, and I’m sure he will want her counsel as well as your father’s.”

“Oh, he will definitely not lack for that,” Celebrían says, grimacing. “And I may as well warn you that she will have her own ideas on how you should best establish Imladris as a settlement of its own.”

That makes him laugh. “I welcome them, for Lady Galadriel is wise and learned, indeed. I continue to welcome yours, at that.” He means it, too. They think alike in some ways, but not so others, and maybe they can teach other a thing or two.

Celebrían grins, rather mischievously, and Elrond can’t help feeling charmed by it. “You will regret that offer soon enough, I think. I’m told I have my mother’s tendency to be overly opinionated. But while you mention it—I _am_ curious about this.” Celebrían points at a particularly large design plan at the side of the table.

The question pleases Elrond, and perhaps he lights up considerably because of it, if Glorfindel smirking from his place by the maps means anything at all. “I’m glad you asked,” he says, ignoring his friend and lieutenant. “That will be my house when it’s complete; my pet project, if you will. A place not only for myself, but a refuge befitting the serenity of this valley: open to any guest who seeks rest or knowledge or counsel, be they of the Eldar, Edain, or even Naugrim.”

Celebrían nods thoughtfully. “A homely house, as it were?”

“Yes,” Elrond says, both surprised and pleased that she understands what he means, and does not think him idealistic or foolish for it.

“And you mean to build it with timber and—limestone?”

“And marble for the courtyards and patios, if we can get our hands on it,” Elrond says. “Our surveys of the area have been promising in that regard, and Gil-galad has agreed to bring quarrying equipment with him during his visit in the summer.”

“They have such things in Lindon? I did not think they quarried much there.”

“Not since we completed construction at both Forlindon and Harlindon, no, and even then we preferred timber and traded with Durin's folk for everything else where we could. But it’s free and even if it isn’t exactly the latest technology, it will still be more efficient than what we have cobbled together here.”

“You’ve had other priorities to consider as well, I’m sure—food and immediate shelter not the least,” Celebrían says, shaking her head. “Truly, it’s quite remarkable what you’ve achieved here, in just four years, given that three were spent in almost complete isolation till the threat to Eriador was mostly defeated.”

Elrond appreciates the complimentary words, but is grave in his reply nonetheless. “Our labours are not yet complete, but I thank you. Indeed, you could say that building sanctuaries for exiled folk is something of a family tradition,” he adds wryly, thinking of Sirion and even Mithrim in years long past.

Celebrían grins back. “And just as your forebears, you seem to have flourished at the task,” she says cheerfully, and Elrond marvels at the stark contrast between this merry maiden, and the rather more unimpressed one who demonstrated to him the efficacy of Nandorin healing practices only hours earlier.

She turns back to the plans. “And this wing here—will that house your feasting hall?”

“This one, actually.” Elrond points left on the plan that Celebrían is perusing. “That other I think of as the Hall of Fire. My grandparents built one in Sirion; a haven for solace and contemplation by the day, and for songs and tales by night…”

“While a fire burns all year around in a great hearth at the heart of the Hall,” Celebrían finishes, nodding. “My parents have mentioned the Hall that Tuor and Idril built—a lovely way to bring the community together, especially after an upheaval.”

“The homely in the house, as it were.”

They share a smile at that, and if Elrond was earlier struck by her intelligence and beauty, he now finds himself warmed by Celebrían’s smile—the gentle way her red mouth curves up, and how that softness is echoed in her keen eyes.

But the evening bell rings in the next moment—though it reaches them simply as echoes that drift in from the dining hall some buildings away—and Elrond must straighten his back and politely incline his head at Celebrían. “It seems the evening meal awaits us now at the dining hall—as will your parents, I think.”

“I would be glad of your company as I walk,” Celebrían says, almost shyly. “And, actually, I might have an idea how you could afford the marble, or any other material your people haven’t been able to acquire from the valley.”

“I would be most glad to hear it, and to provide my company in exchange for yours. And I do believe I’ve promised to regale you with the continuing saga of establishing trade and supply routes into the valley.” Elrond sorts his design plans together, and places them in a leather folio before offering her his arm with a grin. His work can wait another day, and the light is fading, in any case.

“Well, I was wondering—have you considered a vineyard on the northern slopes? I know you’re already cultivating fruit and nut crops, but I think it would be worth exploring the soil content for its wine-making potential. The air here is certainly suitable, at any rate…”

They are more than halfway to the dining hall when Elrond realises that they have left Glorfindel behind.  

.

.

**Summer SA 1701, Imladris**

“I’d congratulate you on what you’ve achieved here in four years with limited resources, but I’m hearing rumours of a mysterious collaborator,” Gil-galad murmurs in Elrond’s ear, as he sidles up just to his right. “So whose vision and foresight should I be hailing here, exactly?”

“Lady Celebrían arrived only recently, but her counsel has been invaluable,” Elrond replies, in as neutral a tone as he can manage. He also carefully avoids glancing across the tented pavilion where the lady in question, lovely in an emerald green dress, is engaged in intent conversation with two Númenoreans, including the fleet admiral Ciryatur.

“Did you know, Gil-galad,” Glorfindel says, stepping up to stand at Elrond other's side, swirling the wine in his goblet with studied casualness, “That Elrond has also been learning the secrets of Nandorin healing arts from Lady Celebrían?”

“ _Nandorin healing arts?_ Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Gil-galad wonders mildly, sipping at his own drink.

“The Nandor, if you must know, have many interesting medical practices,” Elrond says, through gritted teeth.

“Don’t they like to smoke that one pungent weed for pain relief and relaxation?” Gil-galad asks. “Is that what you’ve been up to, then?”

“Along with exploring other unconventional healing methods, no doubt,” Glorfindel interjects. “Maggot therapy not the least.”

 “Fly larvae,” Elrond says stiffly from behind his wine cup, even as he plots a way to extricate himself from his unwanted twin shadows, who promptly begin debating the merits of the aforementioned treatment. Without conscious thought, Elrond’s gaze drifts to the corner of the pavilion where Celebrían stands. That shade of deep green suits her well, and the silver of the leaves in her girdle and circlet is as bright and sleek as that which shines in her long, flowing hair.

He ends up staring too long, because she suddenly looks around, and smiles widely upon seeing him, raising her fingers in a short wave. Elrond can feel his cheeks burning—not to mention hear Glorfindel and Gil-galad snickering behind him—but he grins back at her, oddly pleased.

“You know, Glorfindel, I’d say that was exactly how Eärendil looked at Elwing before he started formally courting her.”

“Like he’d been hit by a battering ram? Funny, I was just about to say the same about Tuor with Idril.”

“Perhaps it was likewise even with Dior and Nimloth! Celeborn or Galadriel might know—though I’m not sure I want to try asking them—”

Elrond clears his throat and glances at them sidelong. “Indeed, I’m sure they would be interested to know that you’ve been gossiping about their daughter.” He raises an eyebrow, and is satisfied when both Gil-galad and Glorfindel wince.

Even more so when it seems that the ribbing has ceased—though a moment later, Elrond realises that it’s actually because Celebrían has taken her leave of the Númenoreans, and wound her way through the gathering to approach them.

She curtsies gracefully to Gil-galad, and nods at both Glorfindel and Elrond. “My lord king, gentlemen.”

“Cousin,” Gil-galad greets, chivalrously pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “You grow more beautiful with each passing year.”

Celebrían is gracious and affable in her reply. “It is but the sweet, fresh air of Imladris. Who could not flourish in this wondrous valley? Elrond has found quite the treasure here, truly.”

“He has indeed,” Gil-galad agrees, just as graciously, though Elrond can see his eyes twinkling. “Will you be performing for us later? It’s been a while since I heard your fine voice raised in song.”

“I do not believe we have yet had the pleasure of listening to Lady Celebrían sing, in fact,” Glorfindel says.

“Then this is a perfect occasion to rectify that fact, if the lady is amenable,” Gil-galad says delightedly, throwing a charming smile in Celebrían’s direction. “In fact, how about a duet with Elrond on his harp? Did you know, my lady, that he learned to play from the Mighty Singer himself, Maglor Fëanorion?”

Elrond tries to frown at his liege lord and king as discreetly as possible. “My harp is still in Lindon.”

“Not anymore, because I’ve brought it here with me to Imladris, as it happens!” Gil-galad says, beaming insincerely.

He steps aside to summon his page, and Celebrian turns to Elrond, her mouth curving upwards, as if she knows exactly what Gil-galad thinks he is doing. Elrond is simply relieved that she doesn’t seem bothered by it. “What then shall we sing, my lord?”

“How about the Lay of Leithian?” Glorfindel interrupts, before Elrond can even open his mouth. “That’s always a big hit with everyone.”

Celebrían’s eyes glitter, seemingly with mirth. “Some might say it’s overly ubiquitous, at that. But what do you think, Elrond?”

He is grateful for the opportunity to veto Glorfindel’s song choice, but in truth, he does not mind at all. “For the pleasure of singing with you, my lady, children’s folk tunes would be as sweet to me as any epic ballad,” he says gravely, wondering how best he can step on Glorfindel’s foot without Celebrían noticing.

His words make her laugh with delight, a sound that Elrond basks in for all that puts him in mind of gentle bells and the soft rushing of the valley’s waterfalls. Well—as long as he ignores Glorfindel’s choked coughing in the background, anyway.

*

Minutes later, Elrond settles by his harp, which has been placed upon the pavilion’s makeshift dais. Nodding at Celebrían, who stands beside him—tall and slender and silver as a beautiful birch—he touches his fingers to the strings of his harp, and begins to sing.

_“A summer waned, an autumn glowed, and Beren in the woods abode…”_

She joins him after a few lines, their voices well-matched and blending easily with the dulcet string tones. There is always joy in singing with another, especially when both are skilled minstrels, and soon enough Elrond loses himself in the power of the song—his eyes no longer looking upon Celebrían or their friends and family in the audience, nor even the flickering candles dotted around the tent. Rather, he almost fancies himself in the enchanted woods of long-drowned Doriath, under starlit vaults of black, watching the song’s tale unfold as if in a vision, or long-forgotten memory…

And as the song progresses, a strange and lonely feeling seems to strike him, square in the chest. This particular song has been many things to him over the years—family history, yes, but also enthralling, adventurous, romantic, defiant. Now, suddenly, as he sings of Beren searching for his Tinúviel, that loneliness seems to spread through him and seep into his bones. When he glances at silver Celebrían beside him, graceful in song and greatly fair, her grey eyes upon him gentle and kind, that sharp sense of longing doesn’t diminish—not at all. Yet he feels himself oddly lifted, and his voice seems to rise higher in the cool summer air, with greater power, but no less melancholy.

_“…But as she looked on him, doom fell upon her, and she loved him…”_

.

.

**Fading, TA 3021, Aman**

When Elrond he opens his eyes, it is to the sight of Celebrían propped up on an elbow, her grey eyes wide awake and watching him intently.

He raises an eyebrow in response, questioning.

To which she reaches over to tenderly brush loose strands of hair away from his temple. “I want to show you something.”

He gently clasps her wrist and presses it to his mouth. “Can it wait?” he murmurs, feeling pleasantly languid.

“As if we haven’t spent the hours since sunrise resting _very_ thoroughly?” Celebrían teases, swatting him lightly with her other hand. And indeed, she does look a little dishevelled; her long silver hair pooled in disarray upon the pillow, and a sheen of sweat glistening across her bare body. “Though, I concede that it could be even more restful…”

“Yes. That,” Elrond replies with a laugh, kissing down his wife’s arm.

But she squirms out of his grip, and slides out of the bed with a giggle. “Do not worry, O Eloquent Loremaster, for there will be time enough for that afterwards!” She tosses his shirt and trousers at him, before turning to pull on her own clothing.

“I don’t know what I could see now that would defeat the sight I beheld yesterday—of our own island in the Enchanted Isles, as gifted by my grandparents,” Elrond says, shaking his head ruefully as he begins to dress. The chance to finally meet Tuor and Idril, and his many other relatives, had been exciting and overwhelming enough, but that at least had left him veritably speechless.

Celebrían puts her hands on her hips as she looks back at him, reminding him of all the world of that young, stubborn woman in green and brown that he’d first met all those years ago. “Well, given that we arrived at dusk yesterday, you haven’t actually had a chance to look at this place in all its glory!”

And moments later, stepping out onto the porch of the wood lodge, Elrond finds himself gaping. He can see why Celebrían insisted on stepping out of their cabin—the island is even more impressive by the daylight.

They had arrived from the small harbour the day before, under cover of a moonless night, with only the stars illuminating their way. What Elrond had seen of the island in the fading daylight, during their boat ride, had seemed beautiful: a gentle green hill tapering into sandy beaches, dotted with trees and little lights.

It is only now that he sees it is not just the site of a few holiday cabins, but a settlement in the making. Houses, gardens, and public courtyards rise up around them, some already built and others halfway so. In between are forests and grasses scattered with livestock, and rivers teeming with boats and fish. And all around are people, recently awoken and preparing to begin a new day of work under the golden sun. Many of these call out greetings to them, and Celebrían and Elrond wave back.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I got started on building up this place without you,” she says. “I wanted it at least partly ready by the time you arrived.”

“It’s incredible, Celebrían." And he very much means it, not least because he can see his own sensibilities in this place, along with his wife’s.

“Oh, and over there?” She points at the highest spot on the hill, as yet empty. “That is where our House will be.”

His spirits lift even further at the thought of it. It will likely have a view not only of the Lonely Isle and Alqualondë, but also of the Noldor-Sindar settlements built on the eastern slopes of the Pelóri—particularly the one under Gil-galad’s care. He can’t think of a more appropriate place to build their new home.  “Our Homely House?”

“I’d say we could call it the First Homely House West of the Sea, except it’s not terribly original,” Celebrían says with a laugh.

Elrond takes her hand in his and squeezes it tightly. “I think it’s quite perfect. But since you helped name our last House, it seems only fitting that I help you find a fresh new name for this one. And provide my unsolicited opinions on its construction.”

Celebrían doesn’t stop laughing as she kisses him, deep and passionate. “I suppose it’s only fair, given how admirably you always coped with my own very many unsolicited opinions.”

“And your odd notions of healing practices, at that.”

She turns bright red, and Elrond remembers the long-forgotten thrill of making his wife blush. “I can’t believe you still remember that!”

“The first time we met?” He flashes her a crooked grin. “Of course I do.  How could I forget unwrapping those bandages to find maggots, of all things!”

“Fly larvae,” Celebrían begins, very seriously, but Elrond kisses her, then, and doesn’t let go for a long while.

“Come on,” she says, breathless and flushed and joyous when they finally break apart “We may have all the time in the world, but I want to get started right now.” She dances away, beginning to sing, “ _An autumn waned, a winter laid,”_ and Elrond trails behind her laughing, content now to follow wherever she will take him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The lines in italics were taken from _The Lays of Beleriand_ (The Lay of Leithian) and _The Silmarillion_ (Of Beren and Lúthien).
> 
> According to LotR's Appendix D, there were six 'seasons' counted in the Calendar of Imladris. Their names, as translated from Quenya, were: spring, summer, autumn, fading, winter, and stirring.


End file.
